Ashley Summers - Beauty In His Bedroom

Regina was aware of his need for silence. He was caught in a situation that perplexed and confused him. Maybe because he was actually enjoying it, she mused. As if enjoyment was forbidden, or at least foreign to him. What had caused him to close himself up to such a degree? Touching the wineglass to her lips, she gave him a sidelong glance as she wracked her brain for details about this fascinating man. There weren’t many. Mid-thirties, childless, obviously well traveled. Divorced, she decided; a man this attractive didn’t run around free for long.

“Are you a native Texan?” she asked.

He nodded, his gaze slipping back to the coral-tipped fingers holding an equally elegant wineglass. “Born and raised on a ranch in the Panhandle.”

A cowboy. Regina smiled at her instant conclusion. Quiet-spoken, tall and lean, with crinkly blue eyes and a battered Stetson, he epitomized the world’s image of a Texan. She was even certain he sat easy on a horse. Well, so did she.

“A cowboy?” she murmured, flashing him a smile.

“A veterinarian.” His plate empty, Clint wiped his mouth and expelled a long sigh. “That was delicious. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. There’s more if you’d like….”

“Thanks, but I’ve had plenty. Whose picture is that?” he asked abruptly.

Regina’s gaze followed his to an alcove furnished with built-in shelves and a small writing desk. “That’s my darling Katie,” she answered with a soft smile.

Clint looked startled. “Your daughter?”

“No, my sister,” Regina answered, chuckling. “She’s fifteen. I know she looks much younger, but she’s a tiny thing, very petite, barely five feet tall. She’s away at school right now.”

His eyebrows rose. “Private school?”

“Yes.” Regina began clearing the counter. “I’ll be through here in just a minute. You finish your wine in the den—we need to talk.”

Hard blue eyes collided with hers but made no headway against her imperious regard. A smile flickered around his mouth. Inclining his dark head, Clint picked up his glass and removed himself to the den.

Music still whispered, more imagination than reality. Rain played on the windowpanes as if in counterpoint. He felt angry, perplexed. Being here should be harder than this, shouldn’t it? But his wife hadn’t lived long enough to occupy their new home.

He sat down on the couch, then impulsively stretched out his legs full length on the soft, cushiony surface. It’s my couch, he thought irritably. If I want to put my feet up, I’ll damn well do it. He set aside his wine. A moment later his head fell back against the stack of jewel-colored cushions. Slowly his thick lashes fanned down….

“Oh, dear,” Regina murmured as she entered the room and stopped beside him. He was asleep. The tremor that started in her heart coursed through her legs as she looked down at him.

Decision time. A simple decision, really, she thought; wake him, and be through with it, or just let him sleep and ride whatever horse the morning brings.

Regina sighed, knowing her flippancy was just a cover for an awareness she’d rather not probe too deeply. Her friends all considered her to be a warm, giving, loving person, often to a fault. She didn’t agree with this last assessment; the world was in such desperate need of love, how could one possibly give too much? This part of her character she attributed to, and honored for, her Italian mother. Still, while it might be admirable to have a big heart, she thought with gentle self-mockery, it wasn’t all that smart.

Because it left her terribly vulnerable.

And because Clint Whitfield was the most dangerous man she’d ever met, the kind of man who touched every instinct known to womankind.

Regina pressed a hand against her breasts. She was nearly thirty and never married. She’d come close once. But when her fiancé learned that she’d assumed responsibility for Katie after their mother’s death, he’d bailed out.

“He dumped you,” she corrected with brutal self-honesty.

Although she still enjoyed the sensual art of flirtation, she’d become wary of deeper involvement. She doubted any man would willingly take on such a burden. A burden she could never lay down. So she’d decided she didn’t need romance in her life. Friendship would do.

But this man had stirred something deep inside her, something innocent of prior experience. And he’d done it without the usual social exchanges, with little verbal or physical communication, and without using an ounce of masculine charm.

Baffled by his effect on her, Regina studied the sculpted features now softened by slumber, the challenging, provocative scar. “Yep, dangerous,” she murmured, a smile touching her mouth. “Wonderfully dangerous.”

Her decision having made itself, she unfolded a cashmere afghan and spread it over his long body. Vulnerable she might be, and sensibly cautious, but she was also Irish as well as Italian, which made her courageous as well as warmhearted. She wasn’t afraid to take chances—as long as it didn’t hurt Katie.

Regina turned off the lamp. Only the moonlight illumined his dark face, glossing it with mystery and sadness. “Good night, Mr. Whitfield, sleep well,” she whispered, and tiptoed from the room.

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